Tiles
by CoriOreo
Summary: A sexy fic for an unsexy movie, and a fun time working with narrative language and interlocking themes. Based on the "recobbled" version of the Thief and the Cobbler movie. Watch it.
1. Chapter 1

**Last night, I watched _The Thie__f and the Cobbler_ for the first time since I was about four years old. I find the movie and its messed-up history pretty fascinating. As a child, I remember almost nothing about the theatrical release of the movie; I thought it was some weird, disturbing _Aladdin _ripoff and promptly forgot absolutely everything about it. Then last night I was watching the Nostalgia Critic's review of the movie, and, well, it all went to hell from there.**

**The "recobbled" version of the movie, as I watched last night, seems, despite its unfinished-ness, to have really great potential. It's too bad that control was wrested from the original creators the way it was; it had the potential to be something really, really amazing in its original vision. In any case, this story takes after the original movie - the one in which Tack is essentially mute, as he was meant to be, so the characterization here is based around that silence. I'd also just like to say that I'm fully aware that, in such a minuscule category as this, just about nobody will ever read this story, but if you do, please let me know what you think of it. It was a really great, fun exercise in soft, concise narrative and figurative language, and, hopefully, successful in carrying multiple recurring themes throughout. Writing fanfiction is a fabulous way to whet the creative knife.**

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In the great golden kingdom, the Princess walked her smooth stone floors. The marble and granite beneath her feet had been carved and smoothed and polished to perfection in ages past by the greatest artisans of the land, arranged in their intricate patterns up and down halls – at some points invisible in their flawless geometry, at others forming beautiful steeples and falls in purest illusion. The Princess closed her eyes. A holdover from her childhood, she still at times feared to walk the palace alone, lest she be lost in its twisting corridors.

But now was not the time for fear.

"Walk, now, dearest, more slowly," Nanny called from behind. The Princess closed her lovely eyes and straightened her back. Her steps became smaller with her concentration, more delicate; she swayed her hips and let her hair fall free, glimmering with each step. "Your body, Child," Nanny crooned from the down the hallway. "As your mother, as all her sister wives and all the women in your blood: your womanly power, your grace, take it from the palace."

The Princess screwed up her eyes tighter in concentration, realized it was not increasing her desirability, and let herself relax. _The palace,_ she said to herself. _The turns, the delicate build of the city itself. It is a lovely woman. She will teach me._

The Princess opened her eyes and let herself step in rhythm with the tiles, which coalesced into and out of one another like poetry. Her free femininity, her subtle strength and wisdom, were in the tiles and walls, there to teach her should she open her senses to understand them. She pranced, leaped, swayed, and turned in the checked hallway, dancing on nothing at all.

On her last step, she alighted gracefully to the ground once more and stood straight and attentive, gazing down the hall to where Nanny stood by the doorway. The elderly nursemaid smiled glowingly from beneath her heavy robes.

"My dear, any man should fall to his knees for you."

–

The Princess stole from the remote hallways of the palace to the royal quarters, to her own quarters. Nobody was about but for a young chambermaid dolefully changing the stained sheets upon the king's bed. The Princess took a deep breath and thought to herself where else she might look. Tack was somewhere. Yet, an hour and one kitchen, one throne room, and a dungeon later, the cobbler was still nowhere to be found. At last the Princess made her way to the garden. Pushing aside the many weeping vines of a willow tree, she found her husband crouched like a sage by the edge of the duck pond.

"Tack," she said softly. He turned to smile at her, that sad, almost reluctant smile that she loved so very very much. She made one step towards him before recalling suddenly her practiced movements; on the next, she swung her hips with great exaggeration. She craned her neck, slimmed her waist, and made prominent her bosom. Within ten steps she was at Tack's side, swooping down next to him, allowing her hair to brush tremulously against his neck, to give his eyes time to linger on her chest as she leaned over to seat herself next to him on the grass. Even when she glanced back up finally, however, having arranged herself as seductively next to him as she could manage, his eyes still were fully on hers, smiling lovingly at her. She faltered. He wasn't showing it, but he must have taken _some_ notice. So she let herself smile back.

The cobbler-cum-Prince wrapped his arm about his wife. She laid her head against his shoulder and the two of them together turned their gazes towards the duck pond, sparkling in the afternoon sunshine. Birds chirped happily in the sky and in the trees. The Princess closed her eyes and snuggled closer. Tack gave her a brief squeeze, but never looked over. There they were silent for a few moments.

Birds continued to chirp. A bullfrog croaked from the reeds. The royal couple remained motionless on the banks.

The Princess licked her lips. Surreptitiously, she arched her back in closer so her breasts rubbed lightly against Tack's chest. He took a deep breath of morning air and finally looked over at her. Excitedly, she arched a little more.

But the cobbler smiled and only kissed her ever so lightly on the forehead. Resting his brow against hers, he tenderly reached to her hand and held it in his. He closed his eyes for a moment, savoring her touch, before smiling again and turning back to the duck pond, quite content to ponder, perhaps all day, the beauty in this small place, holding the hand of his beloved.

The Princess, in the meantime, was crestfallen. She slumped, no longer working to expose herself to best advantage. In only a few minutes more, she announced she was feeling quite warm in the sun, and excused herself to leave for the cooler indoors.

Once inside, she spent the rest of the morning laying prostrate in bed, distraught at only her latest failure out of many.

–


	2. Chapter 2

She no longer held any hope for nighttime.

The Princess slept that night, as she had every night before it, in tight embrace with her husband. Tight, wholesome embrace. Their legs tangled, their hair messed, he grabbed her and held her tight – but in the manner that a boy might squeeze his bedtime toy, or of two rambunctious children who finally have dropped asleep after tiring each other out at playtime. That first night of their marriage, she recalled, oh, how excited she had been as he rolled towards her in the dark, wrapping his arms about her delicate waist and holding her tight to him. She'd closed her eyes and breathed deep, telling herself to savor the moment, every sensation, the smell and the feel of the man she loved, and how lovingly he kept her there on the brink of excitement. She closed her eyes and tried to sense him, to wait and to know when was the time to respond to him in the most pleasurable way possible... And she waited. And waited. And by the time she could bring herself to move, he was snoring softly, lulled to sleep by her soft presence.

Every night thereafter, the two of them slept together – as brother and sister. She was his bunkmate in the royal bedchamber. How she loved him, she thought, laying there in his arms late at night, two months past their wedding. How she ached for him. How she was scared to speak of her aching to anyone but Nanny. Certainly not to Tack himself. He was so heartbreakingly pure. Or that was what she preferred to think, in any case.

What were they to do? she asked herself, laying and staring at the mosaic ceiling tiles in the dark. What of children? _Yes, Father,_ she had been forced to lie many times, _we have spilled enough seed for a thousand heirs! Patience only, Father. Patience._ And future concubines? Dear, dear Tack. She turned to him in bed to watch him sleep, peacefully, as only he could. What did she know about him, truly? He was brave, and resourceful, and kind. But he was so silent. What were his desires, she wondered. Was he perverse? Did he desire something of her she could not give, and so refused to ask? No, she couldn't imagine it. She loved him. She would think of no such thing.

She followed the tiles in the ceiling and traced the pictures with her eyes. Whatever man had created the figures there was a brilliant mind. Each image hidden in the patterns was also something else, each single picture actually two, optical illusions hidden away within each other. Enigma was a fascinating quality in decoration, but never people. She closed her eyes and bade sleep to come soon, but it would not.

In lieu of rest, the Princess's thoughts turned once again, as always, to the man with his arms around her. _Perhaps he doesn't know,_ she thought to herself mournfully. _He is uneducated._

But men need no education to know such things! she reasoned.

_Perhaps such a good man as mine does__._

The pictures in the tiles danced in front of her tired eyes. They danced with each other, intertwined to the point it was not clear where one ended and another began. Bitterly, she rolled onto her side, breaking free from Tack's grasp for the night. What she would give for the same experience. She could only lie to her father for so long.

–

"Nothing, Nanny," the Princess admitted tearfully into her tea, sitting up in bed as the morning sun rolled gaily through the high windows. "He is like my brother. Was it misguided to wed, when we might have adopted him?"

The elderly nurse only blinked understandingly and patted her charge with sympathy. She did not speak, but listened to the girl's worries and sadness. It was heartbreaking to hear. They loved each other so very much. Tack's reluctance to speak put a damper on communication, but they way they looked at each other in secret glances said more about them than a thousand words could. Nanny was sure she understood the problem, but it was not for her to fix. She closed her eyes serenely and told the young Princess openly, "Speak plainly to your husband, dear. The time for games is past. Even the smooth strength of the palace has not helped."

Presently, as the Princess dried her tears and finished her tea, the nursemaid instructed her to stay in bed to regain her strength after a poor night's sleep. Nanny took her empty teacup in the general direction of the kitchen.

–

Tack was trying to step on only the black marble tiles in the hallway floor when Nanny burst in with a teacup in one hand and glowering expression on her face. The cobbler froze and watched her carefully as she marched towards him, burly arms swinging violently.

"You, young man," she said, firmly, but too quietly to befit her dramatic entrance, "are breaking your wife's heart." As he stood baffled in the sea of checkered black-and-white, she continued, "I cannot fathom what happens in your little cobbler mind to keep you so silent and odd all the time. But the time is come to look to your _loins, _and to behave as any other man with _your_ wife in his bedchamber would." Tack was, predictably, silent, but the crestfallen look on his face seemed to indicate that she had gotten through to him. With a huff, the tiny woman scuffled off towards the kitchen, leaving the young cobbler perplexed and alone in his thoughts.

–


	3. Chapter 3

Tack sat lightly on the edge of the bed, twiddling his bandaged thumbs as golden evening light fell across them from the bedchamber window. His royal robes were all asunder. He had twisted and torn at them in his worry and distress since that morning. Now they were perhaps ruined, but there were a thousand more from whence they'd come; he closed his eyes and tried not to worry about it.

He'd not seen the Princess all day long – not since rising from bed that morning to kiss her lightly on the shoulder and pursue breakfast in the kitchens. After Nanny's bursting in on his idle time with the tile patterns earlier, he'd not been able to find his wife anywhere at all. Now night was on the brink of falling, and he could only lay down on the end of the bed as he waited. He closed his eyes.

The Princess, meanwhile, had spent her day somewhat hiding on the castle parapet. She didn't want to be disturbed. Now, though, it was beginning to get dark, and she solemnly made her way up to the palace once again. She paused before her bedchamber door, willing herself to enter to face disappointment again; from the other end of the hall, Nanny watched her silently, feeling sorrow for the young couple. The Princess stood out in front of her room for a decent while, only staring at the patterns in the wood before her. Finally, she sagged her shoulders and entered the room.

Tack was sleeping on the end of the bed, she saw. Something about his posture seemed to indicate he'd been waiting for something, but hadn't managed to stay awake long enough. She sadly closed the door behind her and stepped behind her silkscreen to dress herself for sleep.

At the sound of the closed door, the cobbler woke. He blinked bemusedly once before snapping to attention and scanning the room. His eyes alighted upon the form of his wife behind her silkscreen, slowly removing her top. He pursed his lips and scooted backwards on the bedspread a tiny amount, only to lay his hand down upon a tack that had fallen from his mouth as he slept. He gave a tiny gasp of pain.

At the sound of his movement, the already high-strung Princess whipped her head around the screen. Tack froze as if caught in an unspeakable act. For a moment, they stared right at one another. The cobbler's eyes were wide and innocent; the Princess's, sad and confused. Tack laid his hand back on the bed slowly, having stowed the wayward tack safely in his robe. The Princess watched his hand as it moved and suddenly was struck simply by how lonely she was. That hand, that arm, she wanted _all_ of him so badly, and it seemed that she never would get him. Her lip trembled slightly and she hid herself back behind the curtain as tears began to fall from her eyes and a small sob escaped her lips.

Tack was up in a flash. He loped over to her quickly and swept behind the curtain, holding his wife to him as tears fell down her face. She cried quietly into his robes as he held her close, feeling her naked skin beneath his hands. When she looked up, he saw she wore no top, but did not linger on this; his concentration was spent on her eyes, her soul, he imagined. Her troubles, whatever they were, would be his as well.

For whatever reason, this only seemed to make the princess more upset.

"Tack," she choked, looking unhappy, but when he leaned closer to show he was listening, she pulled away, her chest more visible in the torchlight. "Don't you feel anything for this?" she asked tearfully. The cobbler looked heartbroken. He touched her lightly on her shoulder.

"_No,"_ the Princess said, and sounded almost angry. With a movement, she swept his hand from her shoulder and laid it on her breast instead.

Tack froze. His eyes riveted on his hand and where it lay. Her chest rose and fell with each sobbing breath she took. He didn't move for much, much too long. The Princess wondered whether she had broken him. Then, unexpectedly, he turned and walked out from behind the silkscreen with nary a word.

The Princess was left crying for a moment longer before she dried her eyes enough to step out from behind the screen herself. Tack was curled on the bed with his back to her, not moving at all. Knowing she should be angry, but not heartless enough to express anger at such a pathetic figure, she crawled up onto the bed behind him, wrapping her arms about his waist as he often did for her at night.

The cobbler turned around on his side to face her. He looked ashamed. She wished so much she could do something to ease whatever anxiety he was feeling over this. She closed her eyes for a moment and took a deep breath, swelling her breasts against him. Then she simply held him, tight to her bosom, as in a mother's embrace.

They were silent and warm together, eyes closed, breathing deeply each other's scents. _Perhaps,_ the Princess thought, _this is what love can be. Perhaps, in our case, this is what love _is._ I can love without touching. I can love without feeling. _

_Perhaps this is simply how it will always be._

_Perhaps this is_...

But her thoughts came to a pause as she felt a light tickling sensation along her breast. She glanced down and saw, with a swoop in her stomach, Tack, very lightly, very curiously, licking at her teat like a pup. She stared down at him bemusedly; he glanced up and turned bright pink.

As their eyes met, then, she was fairly certain she understood something. She saw a lost boy in her arms, scared to touch, scared to feel, too used to the things he loved being taken from him. She saw a simple cobbler, unassuming and hardly about to take anything he was less than one hundred percent sure she was willing to give. She saw a man, strong and brave and sweet, married far above him to a woman he would only have dreamt of in his childhood.

She saw her husband, kind and gentle, and she loved him.

Whatever he too saw in her eyes at that moment, he finally seemed to understand something of her as well. He was hesitant, but for the very first time, he reached out and touched her of his own volition, and his hand was like a brush of heaven upon her skin.

They moved together that evening as the sun set slowly above them. They exposed themselves to one another and laid side-by-side, enjoying the tactile sensations of their skin. Tack was in a state of wonderment at the beautiful creature beside him; the Princess, a state of utter happiness, that finally they both were finding their common ground in their great bed. As the sun gave its last red flare over the darkening horizon, the Princess found herself astride her beloved; they kissed; and when the light finally disappeared to connect the dark land with the sky, they too let themselves connect.

In the dark of the night, while the moonlight shone upon the golden city, they moved together, slipping right off the bed down to the floor. They hit the tiles softly, bringing with them the bedcovers in knotted mess all around. On the ground they breathed deep their enjoyment in one another, coming to conclusion, exhausted in their efforts; they patterned themselves with the floor, bodies spread to the greatest, most beautiful geometry they could imagine, falling to the impossible curves of the city and palace. It was their home, it was their love. It was a beautiful woman.

Limbs tangled, hair messed, they slept that night as husband and wife, as close as any two people ever could hope.

In the morning, Nanny rose to bring breakfast to the Princess, but she and her husband were missing. The bed was made neatly, the torches dutifully extinguished. The old woman gave pause, but left with a silent slippered tap.

In the late hours of that morning, in the lush green of the palace gardens, two figures could be seen sitting side-by-side on the banks of the duck pond. They touched only in their joined hands, so any passers-by might think they could be brother and sister; but to see their eyes, in the secret glances they spared each other, anyone would know better. Brother and sister, husband and wife, mother and son; all love in this world was theirs, as held in those happy glimpses back and forth between each other's eyes.

The golden city echoed with morning birdsong.

"I love you," said the Princess.

"I love you," said the cobbler.

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**(Seriously, though, go to YouTube to watch the original movie, and see what might have been.)**


End file.
